


He'll be back

by WinterTeaCupBook



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Café, Coffee Shops, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Oh my goodness where has this come from?, Really OOC Harry, Swearing, You've been warned, barista harry potter, lots of swearing, were talking a really really large amount of filthy filthy language here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTeaCupBook/pseuds/WinterTeaCupBook
Summary: Six months Harry has been working as a Barista at The Owl Cafe. And he hates it.Until one day, someone special comes in and orders something different.... I wonder who it could be??? *gasp*





	He'll be back

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness please read the tags. LANGUAGE WARNING. Swearing +++
> 
>  
> 
> Content is a bit.... geez I don't even know the word for it. If you do, please let me know cause this inner monologue and thought process of Harry's needs a label. Thanks!
> 
>  
> 
> This is unbetaed. Any helpful hints, tips, criticism and declarations of undying love are appreciated and welcomed xxx

\-----

 

"Meg. Soy flat white with vanilla for Meg." Harry calls out, his voice loud and strong as it carries through the crowded cafe.

 

He stands with hip leaning against the counter, left foot lightly tapping as he waits for the customer to collect her steaming cup of brown sluggish shit.

 

Fuck he hates this place.

 

He'd urinate into the machine, but it would probably make the coffee taste better. Geez even the smell of it makes him want to vomit. Maybe vomit into the machine?

 

Fuck this place so much.

 

Bitch face Meg finally comes up to the counter, takes her cup of liquid shit away and Harry breathes a deep sigh. He's been working at The Owl Cafe for the past 6 months, trying to make enough to cover rent and save something for Uni. He hates this place. The boss is a cranky, homophobic bastard, the customers are all up themselves and constantly complain, and Harry. Hates. Coffee.

 

Coffee is shit. It's bitter, thick, watery diarrhoea. And Harry leaves at the end of his shifts stinking. It's made it's way into his pores and the smell leaks out for hours afterwards. It'll find it's way into his bloodstream at some stage and then he'll die. Death by coffee induced septicaemia.

 

Fuck. His. Life.

 

Harry looks at the next order and starts the process of heating milk, pressing buttons onto the machine, grinding beans, the usual coffee nonsense. He rolls the sleeves of his black button-up shirt to his elbows. It's getting hot behind the machine, despite the intermittent rain outside, and the all black ensemble he's required to wear to this festering hole of a job leaves no room for his poor skin to breathe.

 

"Colin, extra-strong long black for Colin." Again, leaning against the counter waiting for this next dick to come up. Ooh he's talking on his phone. No smile. No thank you. What a prick. Harry gives him a disappointed smile, and raises his eyebrows, passing across the hot paper cup. Maybe it'll burn his mouth and throat, Harry thinks. No more talking on the phone when you're in A&E with respiratory burns. 

 

Geez, thinks Harry, he needs to lay off this passive-aggressive shit. But fuck he hates these people. Hates them and hates coffee. Hates that he has to do this to live. 

 

Fuck.

 

Walking back behind his machine, feet slipping slightly in the mucky brown coffee spilt floor. He checks the next order.

 

Ooooooh tea! _Finally_! Someone with _taste_!

 

Harry carefully pulls out the paper cup, gently pops in the English Breakfast bag, slowly pours the water in and starts the brew. It's treated as a living work of art. Bringing his face closer as he adds the splash of milk, stirring the liquid gently, almost whispering sweet nothings to the beautiful libation.

 

Tea. What a beautiful, perfect drink. The consumer of this beverage is of the highest quality, Harry thinks. This person has taste. Finesse. Elegance. They have fortitude. 

 

Harry approves.

 

He walks over to the counter, delicately carrying his creation of perfection. The sides of the paper cup are hot, burning his calloused fingers slightly. He slides it onto the counter reading out "Drako. White English Breakfast for Drako." Harry has a brief thought of, who the fuck has a name like Drako, isn't that a type of duck? When a tall, incredibly handsome man walks swiftly up to him, white-blond hair gracefully falling across his forehead, high cheekbones and the most glorious fucking grey eyes Harry has ever seen -- and they're looking at him with distaste. Squinted slightly as if looking at something far far _farrrrrrrr_ beneath him.

 

Harry, starring at the pretty pretty man, raises his eyebrows, ready to question why this man with taste _perfecto_ is looking at him like some sort of coffee idiot when he interrupts Harry's thoughts with, "It's Draco."

 

"My apologies Draco," Harry quickly says, nodding his head slightly. "Your tea," pushing the cup forward slightly towards Duck Man. Harry looks down, thinking to subtly check out Ducky while he's distracted by the best brewed tea he's ever had the fortune of devouring.

 

He's wearing a fitted grey suit, with light pinstripes, crisp white shirt and a light blue tie, expertly knotted, and gawd-damn if he isn't the most delicious looking thing that's ever trapsed into this shit hole of a coffee shop. Harry can feel his blood pounding through his chest, excitement blooming in his stomach, and, looking up, starts to get his pen out ready to give The Handsome Duck Master himself his phone number -- when Draco has already turned around, and is walking quickly to the door, outside into the grey November day, and away from Harry.

 

Well, shit.

 

That was... not what was meant to happen, Harry thinks.

 

He stands there at the bench, staring out the window, eyes following the increasingly smaller shape of Draco: tea-loving man of his dreams.

 

He'll be back, Harry thinks. He steps back behind his Ugly Mistress, the coffee machine, and continues with the mornings vomit-inducing coffee production line.

 

He'll be back.

 

\-----


End file.
